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“Perfectly,” said Thornton, and there
was not the slightest ill-humor in his voice.
“You—­you think I am a cur?”

“If you have stolen another man’s wife—­yes.”

“And the woman?”

“If she is betraying her husband, she is no
better than you.”

Thornton rose and stretched his long arms above his
head.

“Isn’t the moon glorious?” he cried
exultantly. “She has never seen a moon
like that. She has never seen a world like this.
Do you know what we’re going to do? We’ll
come up here and build a cabin, and—­and
she’ll know what a real man is at last!
She deserves it. And we’ll have you up
to visit us—­you and your wife—­two
months out of each year. But then”—­he
turned and laughed squarely into my face—­“you
probably won’t want your wife to know her.”

“Probably not,” I said, not without embarrassment.

“I don’t blame you,” he exclaimed,
and before I could draw back he had caught my hand
and was shaking it hard in his own. “Let’s
be friends a little longer, old man,” he went
on. “I know you’ll change your mind
about the little girl and me when we reach Prince Albert.”

I didn’t go to sleep again that night; and the
half-dozen days that followed were unpleasant enough—­for
me, at least. In spite of my own coolness toward
him, there was absolutely no change in Thornton.
Not once did he make any further allusion to what
he had told me.

As we drew near to our journey’s end, his enthusiasm
and good spirits increased. He had the bow end
of the canoe, and I had abundant opportunity of watching
him. It was impossible not to like him, even
after I knew his story.

We reached Prince Albert on a Sunday, after three
days’ travel in a buckboard. When we drove
up in front of the hotel, there was just one person
on the long veranda looking out over the Saskatchewan.
It was a woman, reading a book.

As he saw her, I heard a great breath heave up inside
Thornton’s chest. The woman looked up,
stared for a moment, and then dropped her book with
a welcoming cry such as I had never heard before in
my life. She sprang down the steps, and Thornton
leaped from the wagon. They met there a dozen
paces from me, Thornton catching her in his arms, and
the woman clasping her arms about his neck.

I heard her sobbing, and I saw Thornton kissing her
again and again, and then the woman pulled his blond
head down close to her face. It was sickening,
knowing what I did, and I began helping the driver
to throw off our dunnage.

In about two minutes I heard Thornton calling me.

I didn’t turn my head. Then Thornton came
to me, and as he straightened me around by the shoulders
I caught a glimpse of the woman. He was right—­she
was very beautiful.

“I told you that her husband was a scoundrel
and a rake,” he said gently. “Well,
he was—­and I was that scoundrel! I
came up here for a chance of redeeming myself, and
your big, glorious North has made a man of me.
Will you come and meet my wife?”